


Three Finger Hook and Loop

by smithereen



Category: Make It or Break It
Genre: Boys in Bands, Multi, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 20:37:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithereen/pseuds/smithereen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Bro Code is all well and good, but Razor doesn't know a single guy who's actually going to give up a girl like Emily just because his buddy's into her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Finger Hook and Loop

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iridescentglow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescentglow/gifts).



> So many thanks to rudhampaiel for the last minute beta!

"I just really like her," Razor says, slurred. He's pretty drunk. His voice scrapes rough from his throat, overused. His tongue feels thick and heavy in his mouth, like it's moving so much slower than the rest of his body. The rest of his body is jittery, wound up tight with the music still thrumming through him, with the sharp-edged charge of having Emily's eyes on him while the lights were hot on his face and the drums pounded behind him. His knee bounces under his hand. His cock throbs.

"Really," Damon says, the cutting edge of his usual sarcasm blunted with alcohol, a little smile twisting his lips. "I hadn't noticed." His fingers work down the zipper on Razor's pants.

"Did you see her watching?" Razor's head tips back against the side of the van as Damon's fingers grip his cock.

"Oh, she was into you," Damon says. "I could see the little hearts spinning in her eyes." Razor thinks Damon's making fun of him a little. He doesn't really mind it right now. Razor jerks Damon hard, fast, matching the pace Damon's setting. Watches Damon's eyes flick to the back of the van, past the amps piled up next to them, that little hurried jolt of fear as familiar as the slick, thick length of Damon's dick in his hand.

"Her eyes," Razor breathes. "They're so- They're just, like- Sparkly." Damon's mouth is a little open. He licks his bottom lip, teeth digging in for a second. He smells like fresh sweat and beer. "The way her hair…" Razor's voice hitches in his throat, dies.

Damon snorts, somewhere between fond and impatient. "You're so gone, dude. You're ridiculous." He shoves his hips into Razor's slack hand. "Pay attention, asshole."

Razor smiles hard, putting a little twist into his grip the way he knows Damon likes, sliding his thumb over the head. Damon huffs out a sharp breath, his hand pressed flat beside Razor's head on the side of the van. He's sagging into Razor a little, leaning, the sweat shiny skin of his neck, his collarbone bumping into Razor's face.

Razor shuts his eyes. "Her lips… She smiles like…" She smiles like she isn't letting herself smile as big as she could. He wants to see what her smile looks like when she's not being careful with it. His tongue is too slow to keep up with the thought. "So pretty-"

"Are you seriously getting off to her smile?" Damon laughs, a breathless little stutter of amusement. "Did you even see her in that tiny dress? What about her fucking tits, man? What about sliding your hand up underneath that little skirt, getting your fingers up inside-"

Razor's cock jerks in Damon's hand. He flushes hot, going prickly with it, embarrassed. "Don't be gross," Razor says, his voice strained, caught in his throat as the low down heat in his gut snarls tighter, tighter. Damon laughs right beside his ear, soft and dirty.

"So easy. I bet I can make you come just by saying Emily." He stretches her name out between his lips. "Kmeeetttk-" Razor comes, back arching with it, head thunking into the van. He shudders, Damon's hand still working him, working him until he's slumped and boneless against the side of the van, all the shaky wild stage energy gone out of him. Damon's hand wraps around his hand, the two of them jacking Damon together, just a couple more strokes until Damon tenses up, his mouth dropping open, neck straining. Razor's still breathing hard, sweaty and wrung out, when Damon sinks down to sit next to him. He turns his head, rolls it against the blocked up window to look at Razor. He looks unraveled along the edges, softened up. Razor thinks he likes him best when he's drunk. When he's flushed, all the prickly sarcasm and most of the arrogance fucked out of him.

"I'm gonna miss you a little bit," Damon says, smiling.

*

Joey drops them off at the house, the two of them lugging their guitars inside, leaving the rest of the amps and equipment in the van. Razor collapses in front of the TV, propping his feet up on the coffee table. He leaves tomorrow morning, early; but he's not in the mood to sleep, to pack. He feels exhausted and wide, wide awake at the same time; his mind whirling slow but relentless. Damon tosses him a beer from the fridge. Razor puts it on the table unopened, tips his head over the back of the sofa so he can see Damon a little, upside down.

"You sure you're okay with filling in for me at The Shack?" he says.

Damon shrugs. "Pays better than my shitty retail gig."

Razor picks the beer back up off the table, peels at the corner of the label. His knee is bouncing a little again, things he wants to say shifting around inside him. Stupid things about girls. Stupid jealous things. Stupid needy things. He's pretty sure he already said most of them or close enough to saying them that Damon knows. He's pretty sure he's said way too much tonight. "I just hate that I'm leaving," he says finally.

"So blow it off."

Razor frowns at his beer. "I need the money, man." Fucking cars. With their fucking engines that just die on you all of a sudden for no good reason other than they have a few hundred thousand miles on them. And just when things were starting to get good in Boulder too. The Pups had been doing steady gigs pretty much every week, little nothing gigs, but still… Gigs. And he had a job, a shitty job but it was a hell of a lot better than no job. And now there was Emily-

"I can cover you," Damon says. Razor raises an eyebrow at him. Damon smirks, deliberately obnoxious, designed to make you forget that he's actually offering to be a nice guy here. Maybe if Razor weren't already a month behind on rent, and hell if he knows how he's going to make it this month either. Maybe if Damon hadn't been the first guy in the band to offer up his couch when Razor needed a place to stay after his mom split. Razor already owes Damon more than one. Razor shakes his head and pops the cap off his beer.

"I got it," he says. "It's cool." It's just a month. He'll make as much on the road for a month as he would in four months at The Shack. The job will be waiting for him when he gets back. The band. Emily- He thinks about Damon at The Shack. With Emily. He wonders if she'll be waiting for him when he gets back. He takes a vicious swig of his beer and tries not to say something needy and jealous.

*

Razor calls from the road. A different city, a different motel, a different venue every night. He tells himself he's checking in with Damon because it sounds better than checking up on Damon. Checking in means I just called to say hi and to let you know I'm safe. Checking up on is something your mom does. Not Razor's mom specifically, but some moms. Checking up on is what moms who give a shit do if they think maybe you're on drugs or having sex too young or throwing a party while they're out of town. Checking up on means I think you're probably doing something wrong. If you really trust someone, you check in.

Razor is checking in. That's what he tells himself.

*

Damon's kind of a shit. Razor has always thought so, now more than ever when they both know Emily's the one thing Razor's dying to hear about and Damon, being a shit, thinks it's hilarious to make Razor beg for it. Damon talks about how much the utility bill is this month, and who he saw when he was drinking over at Red Bones. He talks about the argument he got into with Joey, and the new songs he's been writing. He talks about every single other thing until Razor gives in, trying to slip her into the conversation some way that's not going to be completely obvious. Some way that will leave him a little bit of his dignity. Razor blushes to the tips of his ears, feeling like he just got caught passing notes in third grade. Damon's teasing chuckle sounds like a playground taunt, like a sing-songed "You looooove her." He's such an unbelievable shit.

But once he's had his fun, Razor has to admit he's not stingy with the details. And Razor does love the details. It feels like Razor knows more about Emily from 400 miles away than he ever did standing across from her at The Pizza Shack. She never told him she was a gymnast. She never told him about her brother. Damon talks about the stuff she's going through at the gym, the stuff she's going through with her mom; and she seems closer than ever, more real in his head than just the sharp twist of her smile, the skeptical tilt of her chin, the soft brush of her hair against the back of her neck. He tries not to think too hard about the fact that Damon is the one she's letting peel away her secrets. He's just glad to be invited in, whoever's holding the door open. He's just glad to know her better.

There are times, more and more lately, when Damon can't stop talking about her. The heavy sarcasm fades out of his voice, and he circles back to her again and again without Razor even leading him there. Razor feels like he should be relieved that he doesn't have to crawl for it, but it scares him a little. The way Damon's voice speeds up; the way Razor can _hear_ him smiling. Razor presses the phone closer to his ear until it aches, like if he presses Damon's voice close enough it'll give him a firmer handhold on her. Them. Like if he listens hard enough then he's a part of it too, what they have, what they're becoming.

The worst is when Damon catches himself. It's like he hears himself, like he realizes that he's grinning, that he's gushing like a little girl. He forces the smile out of his voice, the dry sarcasm coming back. He forces himself to talk about the fact that the shower's broken again. He shuts down even when Razor prods. It's worse somehow than hearing him sound smitten. It means there's something to hide, or that Damon wants there to be. Razor never feels farther away than when Damon lies to him with the sharp whip of sarcasm and a quick deflection.

Razor's not surprised that Damon's falling for her. Fell for her. Whatever it is. She's amazing. That's the whole point. Of course Damon fell for her. Is falling for her. Something.

The Bro Code is all well and good, but Razor doesn't know a single guy who's actually going to give up a girl like Emily just because his buddy likes her. Even if he likes her a lot. When Damon starts sending him straight to voicemail, making excuses for why he can't talk, when Damon quits taking his calls, Razor knows exactly why. Nobody's that noble.

*

Razor gets back to Boulder a couple days earlier than he thought. All he wants is a shower to wash the road off his skin, and to put on a different pair of jeans. A clean pair of jeans. All he wants is to sleep in his own bed.

He's a little surprised to see Damon on the couch when he steps inside their living room. And a little not surprised too. "Joey told me they want you to come out to LA," he says. The fact that he had to hear it from _Joey_ is completely fucked. Damon doesn't even _like_ Joey. "Congratulations by the way." He raises an eyebrow. Damon at least has the decency to look embarrassed. "So what are you still doing here, man?"

"I put it off," Damon clears his throat. "For a little while. Couple weeks anyway."

"What could possibly keep you in Boulder when LA wants you." Razor meets his eyes. He's going to make him say it. He already knows, but he's pissed enough that he wants to see Damon squirm. He wants Damon to look him in the eye, and just say it.

Damon pulls the ring off his thumb, jams it back on. "I should have told you before-" He looks slantwise at Razor. "I didn't know how to tell you."

"Say it," Razor says.

"Emily and I-" He stops. He meets Razor's eyes. "It's not like I went looking for it. But she's- And I'm-" His shoulders hunch helplessly. "I just really like her."

Razor's lips twist up into a thin, hard smile. "Yeah," he says mildly. "She's pretty great."

"I just-" Damon says. He looks miserable. Good. Razor lets himself be angry, hold on to it. It feels good, hot and hard and like he deserves it. He got bad food and uncomfortable hotel beds and unwashed guy smell getting worse on the bus every day. Damon got Emily. He lets the heat of that fill him.

"You could have at least told me."

Damon's jaw clenches. "I didn't mean for it to happen."

Razor snorts. "Yeah, I'm sure you were thinking of me the whole time."

"I mean it's not like you guys were ever dating," Damon says, defensive. His face twists up a little, all hard arrogance, all lofty superiority. It's everything he's never liked about Damon, and he kind of wants to punch him right in his smug throat. "It's not like you guys were ever anything really."

"Dude," Razor says. "You knew how I felt." Damon's jaw clenches. "But I guess an apology is too much to ask."

Damon sneers. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Did I screw up your whole made up fantasy life?" Razor can hardly take a breath the air is so thick with sarcasm. "I didn't steal your girlfriend, okay? She wasn't your girlfriend."

Razor laughs. It feels sharp in his mouth. "You know what-" He slings his bag over his shoulder. "Fuck it." He turns on his heel and heads for his bedroom. He feels a little like an idiot. Because it's true. It's true enough. He was never anything to her but a maybe, a possibility that never actually happened. But it feels a hell of a lot better to be angry, to be righteous and wronged than to be the idiot. The guy who deludes himself into thinking he has a chance. The guy who yells "Dibs!" like he has a right to it. The guy who holds a grudge over something that was never his. He'd rather just keep the anger, hold it close and hot, but he already knows he won't get to. If he does, he loses them both. And he can't lose them both.

He has to be the bigger guy, he knows that. But right now, he's just going to be angry. He's going to be wounded and betrayed and a little bit selfish. Just for a little while he's going to be as pissed off as he wants.

Damon grabs his arm as he passes. "Razor-" he says. His voice cracks in the middle, all the anger gone out of it. It tugs at the rage knotted in Razor's chest, unravels it a little. Razor twitches him off. He just can't. Not yet. He will, but not yet.

*

Razor wakes up to a warm body in his bed. He curls into that heat without thinking, groggy and scratchy eyed, presses back into it. An arm wraps over his hip. A forehead presses into the back of Razor's neck. Razor closes his eyes. Damon's hand sneaks inside his boxers, clasping around his dick. He grips him tentatively, fingers loose. Razor can feel Damon's breath push against his skin, warm and a little wet. His fist glides along Razor's dick, slow. Razor's breath catches, dick stiffening. He swallows the pant caught in his throat. Damon's hand is familiar, but it feels strange moving so easy, so slow. Nothing like the frantic speed, the half panicked rush to get off that Razor's used to feeling with Damon. He takes another shaky gasp of breath, his whole body hot, sweat beading. Damon's mouth opens against the back of his throat, the wet slick of his tongue, a soft press of teeth. Razor squeezes his eyes shut when he comes, whole body tense against the hard angles of Damon's chest, the curve of his hips. Damon's chin slides against the back of Razor's head. Razor listens to him rub his sticky hand on his own boxers. He pats Razor's hip before he gets out of the bed, his fingers lingering just a little, curling over the sharp cut of bone.

It feels like an apology.

*

So this is the part where Razor bows out gracefully. It's not like he has a choice. Emily made hers. They're together. They're happy. This is the part where he has to be happy for them. The part where he's a good friend. This is the part where he stops thinking about what her lips would taste like, or what her skin would smell like, would feel like under his fingers.

She smiles at Damon like she's not being careful, not hiding anything. She smiles at him recklessly.

This is the part where Razor lets her go.

*

Or not.

*

"Damon listens to you, right?" Emily says in the middle of a shift at The Shack.

"Not often." Razor spreads sauce over the rounded dough in front of him. Emily snorts. Razor raises an eyebrow. "Why?"

She leans against the other side of the table, grabbing a handful of cheese. Her teeth tug at her bottom lip a little, and this is where she used to clam up. To toss out something vague that gives away nothing. It's weird though, ever since he got back it's like all the secrets she told Damon, she just assumes Razor knows too. Which is basically true, but it's funny how she just assumes. It's like whatever Damon did to break her open, to get past all her defenses, he tugged Razor along with him. Like Razor got to sneak in behind him. So she doesn't hesitate much before she says, "It's just this LA thing. I feel like he's-"

"Stalling," Razor fills in.

"Yeah," she agrees. "I think maybe he's talking himself out of going?"

Razor looks up. "Well, if he is-" He scatters some green peppers. He wonders if he's supposed to talk about this kind of stuff with her. That's what friends do though, talk about stuff. He looks over at her. "You know you're the reason, right?"

She nods grimly. "That's why we have to make sure he goes." Razor doesn't like the way his guts twist a little, that little lurch of something kind of mean. Something hopeful. He turns away to put the pizza in the oven, to hide his face in case there's a flicker of it in his eyes. "It's not like I _want_ him to go," she says into the silence, like she thinks she has to explain herself. He's spent enough time feeling like he was alone to recognize the bleakness in her eyes. He tosses a pepperoni slice at her, relieved when that shadow slides away, her nose wrinkling up at him. "It's too big a deal to pass up," she says, plucking pepperoni off her arm and flicking it back at him. "You know he needs to do it. You know he'll regret it if he doesn't."

"Yeah," Razor says. She's right. He thinks she's absolutely right, but he hesitates a little over it, thinking about that little niggle of hope. Feeling like it's somehow a betrayal to agree. "It could be a huge break for him," he says finally. If there was a way Razor could just sing. Just all the time. Spend every night on stage. If someone offered him that, he'd be chasing it no matter how far away it was.

"I don't want him giving up his dreams for me." She shakes her head. "Sometimes you only get one chance. If you don't take it-" She frowns, rolling a ball of dough under her hand.

Razor nods. "I get it."

She looks up from giving her dough ball eyes and a nose. She smiles, a little guarded, tight in the corners. "So you'll help me?"

He holds up his crooked pinky. She curls her own around his. They tug against each other, fingers twined, pulling. He presses his palm to hers. His fingers curl down, threading through hers, locking their hands together, holding. Her hands feel strong, callused, not like any other girl he knows. Her mouth is open a little. He stares at her lips. She pulls her hand away suddenly, tucks it behind her waist. Her cheeks are flushed pink as she looks away.

*

Emily turns like fourteen million crazy flips in a row across the sidewalk beside the playground. Razor and Damon both hesitate halfway across the monkey bars, just watching her fly through the air.

"How the fuck-" Razor says.

"-Does she _do_ that?" Damon finishes.

Razor laughs. "Anti-gravity boots?"

"Has to be."

Razor pulls himself past a couple more rungs on the monkey bars, catching up to Damon. He's still just hanging there, swinging a little. Razor bends a knee, nudging him roughly in the back of his thigh, prodding him back into motion. They finish the bars, racing for the staircase up to the slide. Damon throws an elbow, and Razor grabs the back of his shirt, yanking. They laugh, scrambling up the stairs, tripping each other up. When they get to the top they both stop, slide forgotten as they watch Emily balance on the wooden fence, her arms above her head. She turns on a sneakered toe like a ballerina.

Damon leans against the railing, watching her. Razor leans next to him. He nudges against Damon's arm. "You have to go."

"I am going," Damon says, picking the conversation up like there had actually been some context to that.

"You said that two weeks ago."

"I have some reasons to stay," Damon says. He watches Emily do a back walkover on top of the fence.

"Yeah," Razor says. He glances over, and Damon's looking at him. Really _looking_ at him. Like, he doesn't know what exactly. Just _looking_. Razor swallows, abruptly prickly in his own skin, too hot. "But you also have one big reason to go," he forces out. "People wait years for the call and never get it. You got lucky. Don't throw it away."

Damon hunches over the railing. "What if it's not worth it?"

"You really want to spend the rest of your life working at the goddamn mall?" Razor says. "If you're expecting the band to go big, that's- A terrible idea."

Damon smiles a little. "Yeah, I wasn't counting on that one."

They watch Emily jump off the fence, launching herself into a complicated twisting flip.

"You know if she had to choose between gymnastics and you…" Razor says.

"Thanks for that." Damon shakes his head. "Asshole."

"Oh, come on. You know that's partly why you like her. Because she's intense like that. Focused like crazy."

"I've never met anyone who works that hard."

Razor nudges into Damon's arm again, bumping him until Damon nudges him back. "You know if you don't go she's gonna think you're a gigantic pussy."

Damon's mouth twists in on itself, swallowing the laugh. "Fucker." He yanks Razor down into a headlock, arm heavy and tight around Razor's neck. Razor punches him in the side, the two of them knocking into the slide, into each other, laughing.

*

Last gig before Damon heads out to LA, and the crowd's hyped. Razor can feel it in his chest, the thump of the drums, and the screams washing over him, the sway of hands in the air. Joey's on tempo for once, and Damon's fingers are flying over his guitar strings, and Razor's bending over the mic with music pouring out of his throat. Emily's right there, front row, watching them as Razor leans back into Damon, guitars wailing against each other. Damon's head tips back against Razor's shoulder. Razor can feel himself chubbed up a little in his pants and he's not sure if it's her eyes on him, her smile as the lights flash out over the crowd, or if it's Damon's sweaty back pressed up hot and close against him. He shares his mic with Damon for the chorus, looks out at her in the crowd.

He can feel it humming through him, vibrating against his veins.

He's going to miss this.

*

Backstage after the show, Razor can't sit still. His fingers tap restlessly against his thighs. He feels like a shaken soda, fizzy on the inside with nowhere to explode. The three of them are tucked into a forgotten dark corner surrounded by stacks of chairs and crates of outdated Christmas decorations, passing two beers between them. Razor leans back against the sofa, wincing when a loose spring pokes him in the back. Emily hands him one of the beers. She's not drunk, not really, but there's alcohol on her breath. Razor's a little drunker than that. She smiles at him, her arm all pressed up against his side, her hair soft when she turns her head. Damon's hand brushes against the back of Razor's neck, arm draped across Emily's shoulders in between them. Razor shifts a little, hard-on pressing uncomfortably against his jeans.

"You guys were so good," she says.

"You said that already," Damon teases, his head tilting into hers.

"Yeah, but you were really, really good."

"She sounds kind of surprised." Damon's voice is dry. "Should we be offended?" His fingers slip through the hair at the nape of Razor's neck.

Razor takes a swig of beer. "Yeah, I'm seriously offended," he says. "I hate it when pretty girls tell me I'm awesome."

"It's the worst," Damon agrees.

Emily's laughs, her head tipped back on her long white neck. Damon smiles against her throat, his nose nuzzling in under her ear. His tongue flicks out, and Emily laughs harder, her legs curling up a little off the floor. Razor touches the side of her neck, brushes her hair back so he can see better. The way it ripples down her throat when she swallows off the bottle Damon hands her. Razor feels heavy, hot, drunker than he is.

Damon presses his lips against hers, her mouth opening easily for him. Razor watches Damon suck on her bottom lip, watches the sloppy slide of her mouth against his. He wonders if he should go. Emily's leaning back against him though, leaning under the press of Damon's body into hers. Damon's hand is holding on to Razor's shoulder, fingers hard against his skin. Razor lowers his mouth to the curve of her neck, like he can't help it, like he has to. He fills his lungs with the clean smell of her skin. He can feel her breathing, feel it against his chest, feel the way her breath hitches when his mouth opens wet against her skin. His fingers bump into Damon's on the curve of her waist, and he starts to pull back, startled.

He blinks, coming back to himself a little. He wonders what he's doing. He wonders if he's about to get punched in the face. Emily sags back into him, turning her head to catch the corner of his chin with her lips. She looks glassy, dazed. Her lips are swollen up from Damon's mouth, pink. Damon's hand closes on Razor's knee. He meets Razor's eyes and there's nothing there but invitation. Razor shudders, dick jerking heavy and thick inside his pants. Damon smirks like he can tell, like he knows. Emily kisses Razor, lips catching hot and wet. His hand slides up her thigh, the muscles hard and sleek, the thin fabric of her skirt tickling his fingers as he slips past it. She gasps into his mouth, a little soft broken sound that makes Razor's whole body go heavy, makes his dick ache. She turns her head and Damon catches her mouth, slides his tongue in. Damon's fingers brush against Razor's zipper, pulling.

Razor wonders why he ever thought this was complicated when it's so easy. When everything empty inside him feels full and tight, everything sharp and selfish and jealous feels blunt and aching and sweet. When everything fits.

So perfectly easy.

*

Damon kisses him in the car at the airport, with the scrape of stubble and a hard push of his tongue. Emily holds his hand, calluses catching rough against his skin as they watch Damon toe his shoes off in the security line.

"He'll be back," Razor says to her. "Or we'll meet up with him in LA." Just then, he believes it.

She smiles at him like she's not being careful. Like she's not holding anything back.

He swings their joined hands between them, holding on.

end


End file.
